Text 80

From his shoulder Hiawatha

Took the camera of rosewood,

Made of sliding, folding rosewood;

Neatly put it all together.

In its case it lay compactly,

Folded into nearly nothing;

But he opened out the hinges,

Pushed and pulled the joints and hinges

Till it looked all squares and oblongs

Like a complicated figure,

In the second book of Euclid

This he perched upon a tripod,

And the family in order

Sat before him for their pictures.

Mystic, awful was the process. (...)

All the family in order

Sat before him for their pictures.

Each in turn, as he was taken,

Volunteered his own suggestions

His invaluable suggestions.

First the Governor, the Father

He suggested velvet curtains

Looped about a massy pillar,

And the corner of a table,

Of a rosewood dining table.

He would hold a scroll of something:

Hold it firmly in his left hand;

He would keep his right hand nursied

(Like Napoleon) in his waistcoat;

He would contemplate the distance

With a look of pensive meaning,

As of ducks that die in tempests.

Grand, heroic was the notion:

Yet the picture failed entirely:

Failed, because he moved a little,

Moved, because he couldn't help it. (...)

A little nonsense is a dangerous thing: the topsy-turvy world was gradually growing into solid reality by the end of the 19^th century. It was at that time that humorous verses were becoming ruthless. Poets were contemplating the irony of fate, and the irony of Man's short and solitary existence in the world. It was all over with God. He had left early. But what came next?